


The Absence of Light

by Bullfinch



Series: After Kirkwall [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, M/M, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during Here Lies the Abyss. Hawke stays in the Fade. Then he tries to get out. Easier said than done—he's bone-tired and trapped in a hostile, unfamiliar environment with no way of finding an exit.</p><p>At least he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I wrote this story after finishing the After Kirkwall series and inserted it later, so if it sticks out that's probably why.
> 
> Also I already did the whole “ditch-Fenris-to-protect-him” thing in another context so that’s why the events leading up to ditching Fenris are different from in-game canon here.
> 
> I picked the "choose not to use archive warnings" option because this fic might end up meriting a "graphic depictions of violence" warning—we'll find out when I write that part. None of the other warnings will apply.
> 
> In the absence of light, shadows thrive. _-Canticle of Threnodies, 8:21_

Hawke hunches over the letter so that the rain won’t fall on it and smear the ink. 

He knew of the demons roaming Ferelden, even spreading into Orlais, the Marches, the southern reaches of Nevarra. But this—

It’s bad. It’s worse than he’d thought.

Fenris comes up at his shoulder. “Who sent it?”

Hawke folds the letter carefully. “Varric. He says he needs help.”

“Then we shall return to Ferelden after we reach Nevarra.”

“I think—I think it’s urgent. I think I have to go now.”

No reply. Hawke looks up at the cluster of tents beside him, finds Fenris looking that way too. A young woman, her sleeping child held to her chest, smiles back at them.

“We can’t just leave them,” Fenris murmurs.

Two dozen would-be slaves, liberated from a caravan three days ago. Hawke’s planning was meticulous, and the ambush went off as smoothly as expected—only a few bruises shared between him and Fenris. And the captives were unharmed, which was the important part. But they can’t just be let loose into the Tevinter forests—too easy for them to starve, or get lost, or even to be picked up again by scavengers hunting for more slaves to sell.

“How many days until we reach the border?” Fenris asks.

Hawke shakes his head. “Four, if we’re quick. Five, more likely.”

Fenris waits.

It’s Hawke’s decision, of course. He’s the strategist, and he’s the one whose aid is called for. He rubs his forehead. “Can you take them yourself? Navigating shouldn’t be too hard, you just need to keep heading south.”

“Of course. We can find each other again after your business is concluded.”

Hawke stares at the folded letter a moment more, then slips it into his pocket. “I’m sorry to up and desert you like this.”

“No need to apologize.” Fenris takes his hand. “We will see each other again soon enough.”

Hawke squeezes Fenris’s fingers and can’t think of what to say.

They haven’t been apart for any significant period of time in…how many years? Ten? No, eleven. To be away from him for—weeks, probably, with what Varric said…Hawke finds himself hesitant. He’s come to depend on Fenris, a little, to keep him steady when he’s begun to waver. And now he’ll be on his own again. 

Fenris kisses Hawke softly. “Be safe.”

“Same goes for you.” He strokes Fenris’s hair, kisses him again, and again, trying to make up for all the kisses he won’t able to give in the coming weeks.

“Hawke—“ Fenris is interrupted by another kiss. “The messenger—“ Another kiss. “—seems rather impatient.”

Oops. Hawke glances over his shoulder. She’s standing there with one eyebrow lifted, unamused. “Right. I’ll see you again before long.”

Fenris smiles. “I will be counting the days.”

Then he goes to attend to their traveling companions.

The messenger comes up, stroking the Carta mark on her cheek. “Varric said you’d tip.”

Hawke nods thoughtfully. “Want to know a secret about Varric?”

“What?”

“He’s an  _outrageous_  liar.”

She heaves a sigh. “So you’re not going to tip.”

“Not yet. But if you can find me the quickest route to Skyhold, I’ll pay you for it on the way.” He doesn’t know what she charges, but he figures that’s a lot of nicked purses. Still, better than forging ahead on his own. “And I’ll tip you for both jobs in the bargain.”

——

“It has to be me,” he murmurs.

The demon advances. Enormous. He’s never seen any creature that huge, except maybe the High Dragon.  _Maybe._ It’s still recovering, at least. A few seconds, then. A bare moment to breathe. He puts an arm out in front of the Inquisitor, herds her back. Finds Stroud is doing the same. The Inquisitor doesn’t much like being herded back. “Let’s just kill the damn thing and move on already!” she snaps.

Stroud lets out a brittle chuckle. “I fear killing it is rather out of the question,” he tells her. “I will stay here to hold its attention while the two of you escape.”

“Oh, come  _on,_ don’t be so fucking—“

“He’s right,” Hawke says airily. “That thing’s going to kill all three of us if we make a stand. Stroud, take the Inquisitor to the rift.”

“Hawke—“

“Listen, without you the Wardens are, pardon me, but right  _fucked.”_  He flashes a quick grin. “They need you. Nobody much needs me.”  _Fenris,_  he thinks,  _Fenris, Fenris—_

The demon lumbers toward them. Too close. Shit. “You’re the Champion!” Stroud calls. “Of course people—“

“They don’t. They really, really don’t.” He motions. “Stroud, go, please. There isn’t time to fight about this.”

 _“Merde,”_ he mutters. “Fine. Inquisitor!”

They circle to the left. Hawke slips a throwing knife from the sheaf at his back, plants his feet, and aims.

It’s a good strike, and the knife disappears into the gelatinous orb of one of the creature’s many eyes. It squeals, swinging its immense body toward him. He slips to the right. “Come on, you bastard,” he breathes. “Come and get me.”

It clacks its pincers—each as long as Hawke is tall—and crawls forward. As he watches it bearing down on him, he remembers, as he often does (despite twelve years gone since) what Athenril told him just before his first job with her.  _Achieve the objective,_  she told him, tapping her pipe with one thin finger.  _Go in, pick up the cargo, and get out. We’re smugglers, not assassins or thugs. No one has to get hurt or die. Grab the cargo and get out. Everything else is secondary._

 _What if they’re pursuing us?_ he asked.

She shrugged.  _Lose ‘em._

_What if we can’t?_

_It’s up to you, Hawke._  Smoke curled from between her lips.  _Achieve the objective. If you have to do it by killing someone, then so be it. But running is usually faster._

One spiked leg spears down at him. Hawke dances back over the rocky ground. Another leg, and he pivots away.  _Achieve the objective._ The Inquisitor’s escape, and Stroud’s.

He doesn’t have to hurt this thing. Doesn’t even have to die. He just needs to buy a few seconds.

More legs. Shit. It’s got a lot of them. Hawke can’t retreat, or he’ll risk losing its attention. So he ducks forward, beneath its sweeping pincers and underneath it, and stabs at the bottom of its big hairy head.

He tags it. Grimy black slime drips from the cut. That’s unpleasant. Legs jabbing down from its belly, smaller ones. It has plenty extra. He backs away—the creature shifts above him, moving  _much_  faster than an enormous lump of flesh like that has any right to. The pincers sweep sideways—crowded out behind by the legs, nowhere to go. Hawke puts his arms up to block and prays he doesn’t stab himself by accident when he gets hit.

The pincers smash into his forearms.  _Ow._  Immediately he knows something’s broken. Right arm, that one was hit first. That’s his weaker arm. Could have been worse. He flies back, and its legs wrap him up.

Or try, at least. He curls himself into a ball so it can’t grab at his limbs, and then goes to work with the dagger, stabbing at whatever spider-flesh is nearest. Some satisfying hisses, and a couple of legs withdraw. It’s enough for him, with some judicious kicking and wriggling, to free himself, rolling toward the center of the creature’s great white underbelly. Legs. Shit. Unfolding from above him. Why does it need this bloody many? Hawke slashes at them to beat them back, which, of course, lets the creature know where he is. It rotates above him. The damn pincers will be next. He goes to run—but it hangs too low for him to stand straight, and he stumbles along at a half-crawl. A rattling hiss, and legs start raining down from above. Fuck. He flips on his back so he can divert the strikes into the ground before they spear him through and through. Its spiked exoskeleton tears up his leather glove and bloodies his palm. A searing pain in his side. Shit. That one got him. The rocky ground digs into his back, even through his armor. He can’t keep this up. The bloody thing’s just too big.

A crackling noise pierces the air, harsh and hard to Hawke’s ears, and there’s a flare of light off to his left. The demon pauses. The rift. The Inquisitor must have got through the rift, and she’s closing it.

Thank the Maker. His job is done. The objective achieved. Now all he has to do is escape. And he has to do it  _now,_  while the demon’s distracted.

He sheathes his dagger, digs in his pouch for an alchemical vial and smashes it against the rock.

Oily black smoke gushes out. Forgot to hold his damned breath. Amateur mistake. Hawke grimaces, trying not to cough, and inches sideways, staying well within the half-sphere of smoke. Then he hurls a second vial to his left, and a third. Scraping of spider-legs on rock. Hawke crawls right, praying.

The demon is investigating the two newer clouds of smoke. That’s bought him a couple of seconds. He needs a more permanent hiding place. He scrambles over the rock—his right arm sore, definitely broken, damn it all—spots a few small ridges, but that won’t help, it’ll find him, it’ll rip him to pieces—

There. A crevasse. (Really more of just a crack in the ground, but he’ll take what he can get.) Hawke clambers over and rolls sideways into it.

It’s too narrow for him, the craggy walls pressed up hard against his chest and back, and he has to blow all his breath out and push himself down further, his scraped palm planted against the damp rock. Not enough. He pushes harder, reaches down with his lower hand, finds a ledge—barely wide enough to catch against his fingertips—and curls his fingers under it so he can pull as well. It works, inch by inch, his muscles straining as he wedges himself down.

Movement above him. Hawke cranes his neck, glancing up as he continues his desperate, incremental escape. The carapace, rotating. He prays the dark covers him, that those legs do not dip down to probe this narrow cranny as one would sweep a finger along the crack in a table to brush away the crumbs. Not when he’s pinned here, immobile, laughably vulnerable to those great snapping pincers that could slice him up right here and leave him little more than a clump of shredded flesh that would drip and fall in chunks, or strips, to the bottom of this black nothingness below him, wherever that might be…

 _Fenris._  He almost whispers it, but doesn’t. This thing might hear him.

He is not killed. Not yet. Every second, not yet. He pulls himself deeper. The crack narrows even further. Damn it all. He gasps for breath.

Above the demon shades him. All he can see beyond the crevasse is its sickly pale underbelly.

It’s time to get out of here.

Hawke pauses for a moment. Just a moment. He’s been wading through demons for what feels like hours. He needs a break. He needs to rest.

But he can’t, of course. Any minute that thing might peer down into this fissure with its bulbous eyes and discover him, and then it’ll all be over. So when it decides to do that, he has to not be here.

Hawke changes his grip, rotates his upper hand, finds with his lower hand a vertical crack into which to jam his fingers. His toes, too, he can find holds with those, and he does, his boots catching on the rough stone. Then he pushes, and pulls.

Slides forward a few inches along the line of the crevasse.

Inglorious, certainly. Not to mention painful. But he’ll live. Maker willing, he’ll live.

He repeats the process. Plant the upper hand. Grasp with the lower. Dig in with his toes. Move. His broken right arm throbs but holds. The uneven surfaces of the walls compress his chest. A couple of times he has to stop, growing lightheaded with the exertion and the lack of air. Shit. He glances up. No more underbelly, but surely he’s still within sight of that boil-like cluster of pus-white eyes. Nowhere to go but forward.

Or…

He reaches down as far as he can, groping. The walls remain flat and close. At this spot, anyway.

So yes. Nowhere to go but forward. For the moment.

Hawke forges ahead. Progress is slow and painful. In the close space his breathing—what little there is of it—is harsh and loud in his ears. The rock grows more damp, or so he thinks until he glances up at his hand. No. His palm is just slick with blood, that’s all. Every few feet he reaches down and gropes to find out what’s below him. Narrow walls. He grimaces and keeps going. Reaching down, reaching again.

His fingers find an edge. He pauses, then strains his shoulder, trying to feel—open space beneath,  _maybe_.He plucks a vial of poison from the slots at his waist and tosses it down into the blackness.

A second’s silence, then a crystalline sound as the glass hits stone. Not too far a fall. Might be awkward, coming down from this position.

The more pertinent question: is it worth it?

He stays where he is, waiting. No scrabbling noises of claws over the rocky floor, no curious rattling of hungry mouths, no foul winds wafting up from above. The great bloody spider certainly can’t make it down there.

Of course, Hawke hasn’t any idea whether or not he can make it back up.

But he has to rest. He’s exhausted and hurt and in no condition to run from anything, which he’ll no doubt have to soon enough—this is the bloody Fade, after all, and a nightmare demon’s territory, no less. He has to hide, and regain his strength.

So again he plants his bloodied hand on the wall, grasps with the tips of his fingers at the lip of rock beneath him and engages his spent muscles. His arms shudder with the effort, and his chest aches. Not enough air, in this narrow space, with his body compressed like this. But slowly, by degrees, he manages to jam his bulk further down into the crevasse. When he’s low enough to fold his left arm under the angle in the rock it becomes a little easier, and he can hook one of his feet beneath the edge as well. Closer. Closer. He plants his lower hand on the angled ceiling of the space beneath, slips his knee under the lip. One last effort—

He plummets through darkness and lands hard on his shoulder. Freezing water flows over his face and into his mouth, and he raises his head, coughing. An underground river—shallow, only perhaps a foot deep. He reaches into the water, groping along the riverbed, finds the downward slope and crawls in the opposite direction, the water receding around him. At least he heaves himself out onto the flat stone.

He lies there for a long time.

An trickle of anemic green light leaks down from the crack above him. The river glimmers, torpid, the sullen burble harsh and crackling in the low-ceilinged cave. Limns of reflected illumination on the damp rock look like fractures in his unfocused vision. Perhaps it’ll give beneath him. Perhaps there is yet more darkness to fall through. Perhaps this is a futile venture, these flighty dreams of escape—from the  _Fade,_  from a realm utterly unknown to him, of which he cannot hope to control even a fraction. Especially not here, not in a place molded by that great bloody demon…

“Fenris,” he murmurs.

He has to keep trying, of course. No matter how hopeless it all seems. There’s nothing to lose. He lost it already, when the Inquisitor closed that rift.

So he has to get it back.

Hawke staggers to his feet—collapses to a knee, grimacing. The ache in his right arm lances vindictive through him. That will need a splint. Where else was he injured? He reaches down—the slice in his side, a spike from the spider’s leg. Not too deep, thanks to his armor. Those are just the new injuries, of course. He’s got a dozen bruises from Adamant and the journey through the Fade, but he had allies then, and when his opponents are distracted, it's much easier to avoid getting hurt.

No allies anymore. Well, he can always run away. He goes upriver. Water flows downward (in the real world, anyway, and he prays the rules are the same here). Hopefully it'll return him to the surface—away from that creature's veritable bouquet of prying eyes.

He goes forward, keeping his eyes and ears open. No telling what sort of nightmare effluvia make their homes down here.

The first find him soon enough. A faint sloshing, an interruption in the sound of the river. Hawke turns and finds a pair of people crawling out of the water. Not people, really. They're bleeding, or bled out. Sometimes they come at him with a righteous rage. Other times it's simple anguish. They don't say anything, although they don't need to. He recognizes them, every one.

Faces he used to see in Kirkwall. He doesn't know if they lived through the clash that night after the Chantry exploded. Plainly these creatures would like him to think they didn't.

Hawke sighs quietly and wishes he saw spiders instead.

Only two, so they go down quick enough. He wonders how many he could take at once. Not that many.

He keeps going.

The shock recedes a little as he walks—finally—and Hawke starts to catalogue what he knows, to at least pretend he's got some control over the situation, and to help him make a plan. The goal, first. Get out. How? Well, the Inquisitor left through a rift, so he'll look for one of those. How to find it? Wander blindly, he supposes. Better than asking a demon for directions. Could take days, though. What will he eat?

With a mild jolt he realizes he isn't even a little bit hungry.

That’s not normal. It’s been hours since he’s last eaten, and he’s been fighting most of that time. He should be starved. Hawke halts, leaning up against the wall. The Fade, fine, it’s an alien environment but he’s still himself. But now it seems to be affecting him too.

He hates this bloody place. All right. Time to move.

The corpses come to him still, but never more than three at a time, crawling from the sluggish waters of the wide, shallow river. He thinks the ceiling grows lower—or the floor grows higher, rather. It’s hard to tell. Dark down here, really dark. The crack above has narrowed to almost nothing. A few scattered shafts of light reach down listlessly, hardly enough to impinge upon the soft, humid blackness. Hawke keeps his hand on the wall, his right hand. It’s not bleeding anymore, the palm crusted over with a thick, fragile scab. He guides himself with his fingertips. How much longer until he reaches the surface?

Doesn’t really matter, he supposes. He has to keep going, and there’s nothing to stop him. He isn’t hungry, and he’s exhausted—physically and mentally—but still very much awake. That shouldn’t be true either, and yet. It makes sense, if he thinks of it. Mages visit the Fade in dreams. It would be odd if this place allowed sleep.

So he doesn’t have to sleep, or eat, probably. He can keep on as long as he needs to. As long as it takes. Eventually he has to start crouching to fit in the tunnel. That’s promising.

More corpses. He kills them. That, at least, is soothing. One thing this place hasn’t taken from him—he’s still very good at killing.

Far ahead, a muted glow of pale green.

Might be the exit. Hawke has to go nearly at a crawl, the ceiling’s gotten so low. The river has narrowed, the flow not so lethargic here, grown hard and vehement as Hawke draws closer to—

—a short waterfall cascading down an eroded wall of rock, through an oblong hole carved out in the ground above. Hawke breathes a sigh of relief. Took long enough.  Or—did it? He realizes he hasn’t any idea of how much time he spent in the tunnel. Surely a couple of hours? No, maybe not even thirty minutes. Can’t be—it  _was_ longer, at least two or three—or not, it was just a short—

Hawke presses his good hand to his forehead. No use going in circles over it. The only thing that matters is finding a way out of here. The walls of the opening are smooth, but Hawke is tall, and after a couple of false starts he manages to leap up and grab the top edge of the hole. With an enormous effort—and no small amount of pain, bloody  _broken arm,_  it needs a damned splint—he pulls himself up and onto the surface again.

Exhausted. Shit. A nice long nap wouldn’t be unwelcome, but he’s certain he couldn’t fall asleep if he wanted to. All right then. Forward. Whichever direction that is, anyway. He rises with a groan and looks back the way he came. Vast, black fields of rock, volatile ridges plunging scattered and high into the hazy air. The gangrenous sky hangs over him like a threat.

He doesn’t see a great lump of a spider anywhere. That’s a good sign. Still, best not to backtrack, in case—

“Hawke?”

He freezes. No. Can’t be. Slowly he turns.

In the river, the water flowing fervid and fast over his ankles, Fenris stands quietly waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

His skin is ashen gray, and his hair is long and unkempt. His sunken eyes glow the same poisonous green as the sky above.

A stark contrast to the livid red of his lyrium brands, wrapped like varicosities around his naked body.

“Hawke,” he mumbles. “I think I’m sick.”

Hawke stumbles forward, his legs weak and numb. How could he have let this happen? “Fenris—no, we’ll find a way to get you better—“

Fenris shakes his head, his tangled locks of hair swaying with the motion. “I won’t get better. I shouldn’t have come with you. I should have stayed safe.”

“No, please, there’s got to be a way—“ Hawke reaches out and brushes Fenris’s face.

Fenris grabs his wrist and twists, hard. Shit. Hawke twists with it, desperate to preserve his good hand, darts out one foot and hooks it behind Fenris’s knee, pulling hard. Fenris buckles, releasing Hawke to preserve his balance. Hawke slips back and draws a dagger.

What bloody for? This is  _Fenris,_  he can’t hurt Fenris.

Not even if Fenris is coming at him quick as ever—but more wild, his Tevinter forms abandoned for something savage and unrestrained. Must be the red lyrium, driving him mad. Hawke is a fraction too slow to adjust and takes a blow to the shoulder for it—the same shoulder he landed on when he fell from the crack into the river.  _Ow._  He strikes out only to stop mid-stab—this is  _Fenris,_  for Andraste’s sake, Hawke can’t just stick a knife in him.

Fenris goes to the outside of the stab and attacks.

Punch to the jaw. Hawke tries to lean back, but it still glances off his chin, dazing him a moment, and he blocks on instinct, staggering. Right arm. Mistake. When Fenris hits it shock of nauseating pain seizes his body, and he drops the arm; the next blow he ducks, and it skates off the crown of his head.

It shouldn’t be this bloody hard. The strikes are fast yes, but Fenris isn’t disguising them. Hawke should be able to spot them and dodge. But he’s  _tired,_  he’s tired and in pain and Fenris is sick and Hawke doesn’t want to hurt him—

—but has to. Just for now, at least.

The decision is a piece falling into place, made between a looping punch that he arcs away from and a jab he diverts. He has to stop Fenris, or he’ll die here. Those are the only two options, and the choice is simple enough. Fenris is quick, but Hawke has always been quicker. And better, too, at hand-to-hand. He slips inside another punch and lashes out.

Fenris doesn’t try to dodge. The blade of Hawke’s hand takes him just below his breastbone.

He doesn’t appear to care very much.

He grunts, yes, and flinches. But then he’s back to his assault. Hawke— _tired—_ allows himself to be taken by surprise and gets punched in the mouth for it. Shit. The red lyrium must be bolstering him. Hawke flips the dagger so he can strike with the pommel, at least. Although at this rate it’ll take a lot of strikes. Getting hit below the breastbone usually has a rather impressive result.

He doesn’t have the strength for this. Well, he might have it, but not to spare, not with demons about. He gets Fenris square in the jaw, watches his head snap to the side and then right back to come at him again.  _Achieve the objective._  Escape. Hawke turns his shoulder into a blow, throws a low kick at Fenris’s leg.  _No one has to get hurt or die._  Fenris’s fist lands hard in his chest, but his armor absorbs enough of the force to preserve his ribs.  _Running is usually faster._

Hawke charges.

He catches Fenris on his shoulder, lifting him clean off the ground. Fenris struggles for a moment, taken by surprise. By the time he’s throwing a knee Hawke has unshipped him and tossed him down through the hole in the ground. The angry red glow disappears into the dark. Fenris isn’t as tall as Hawke, nor as experienced a climber. It should take him some time to get out of there.

Or it might not. Hawke would rather not find out. He turns and runs.

He does not stop for a long time.

——

Of course it wasn’t Fenris.

Hawke yanks his dagger out of another corpse (Maura, Lowtown baker, used to sell the most amazing plum bread). Fewer of these now. Must be getting further from the nightmare demon. He keeps walking, checks over his shoulder now and then.

Of course it wasn’t bloody Fenris. Why would it be Fenris? How would he even get here? Hawke runs a thumb over his split lip, annoyed with himself. No, no need for the blame. He isn’t stupid enough to fall for such a trivial ruse.

So that creature, whatever it was, must have made him believe somehow. Wonderful. A demon that can get in his head and manipulate his mind. The worst bloody kind. And he’s just ticked it off. Hawke glances up. The sky hangs low over him in suffocating green, cloudless as ever. Well, he decided not to kill the thing—idiot—so if it finds him again, how’s he supposed to beat it? Maybe now that he knows the trick, he’ll be able to—

“Can you help me?”

Hawke whirls, grabbing the speaker by the neck and throwing it to the ground. He draws his dagger and straddles it, stabs at its throat—

—the blade spearing instead through its hand as it tries to guard itself, and going off-course, the sharp tip jabbing into the rock beside its ear.

“Ow,” it whispers.

Hawke discovers it isn’t trying to fight him, or even struggling. So he has a moment. A moment to figure out what’s happening.

The thing doesn’t look like any demon he’s ever seen, which, as he has just been reminded, does not mean it isn’t a demon. It is child-sized but not childlike. In shape it’s human enough. Further details are hard to tell. Its skin is a deep midnight black and gleams with a thousand thousand sliver-like facets. The appearance is as a statue carved of onyx, but beneath his scabbed hand the texture is oddly soft. Its eyes are dark as well and almost disappear in its face. But Hawke knows those eyes, the color of silt, and with the same sparkle. Qunari eyes.

 _Why’s it got those?_  he wonders.

“You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to hurt you, or tempt you,” it says. Its voice, like its skin, is incongruously soft. “I’m not a demon. I’m a spirit.”

Hawke snorts, tugging his dagger out of its hand. He still holds its throat. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. I promise.”

“Then what’s your name?”

“Clarity,” it tells him.

Hawke lets out a guffaw at that. “Right. That’s why you’re coal-black all over.”

“Well—“ Its features shift, but its expression among those shining facets is invisible. “—not like that, I suppose. I have other names.”

“Such as?”

“Pragmatism.”

“Oh, spare me.” Hawke waves his dagger. “Get to the bottom of it.”

The creature hesitates. Then it murmurs, “Ruthlessness.”

Hawke doesn’t reply.

He turns the situation over in his head. Stuck in the Fade. Hostile demons everywhere. No idea how to get out. Aware of his silence, he speaks to maintain control of the situation. “A spirit? How’d you find me, if you weren’t sent by that great bloody spider?”

“I felt you.” Its voice rises a little. “I felt your clarity. I came and found a waterfall, and I looked for you.”

 _I felt your clarity._ Hawke thinks about it.  _Pragmatism._   _Ruthlessness._  Probably the decision he made to attack Fenris in order to escape—when he still thought it was Fenris. He grunts. “Why’d you look for me?”

“I need help. I’m trapped here.”

 _So am I._ Hawke keeps his mouth shut. Wouldn’t do to tip his hand.

“I wandered in by accident and now the nightmare won’t let me leave,” the creature continues, in its gentle voice. “It keeps spirits here. I’m afraid of what it’s going to do to me. I just want to leave.”

“Oh,  _I_ see.” Hawke nods in understanding. “You want me to help you pop through a rift and out into the real world.  _Spirit,_ my ass—“

“No, I—I don’t have to go through the rift. I can go to another part of the Fade. I just hate this part. It’s frightening and there’s no one else here.”

Hawke lifts an eyebrow. Shit. “You know of a rift?”

It nods. “I saw one. But there were demons in front of it. I couldn’t get very close.”

“How far is it from here?” Hawke asks sharply.

Again, shifting in its face, indicating a change of expression Hawke can’t see. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hawke sighs.  _Far_  probably doesn’t mean much in the Fade. He thinks of asking it how long it’s been here, but that won’t mean a damned thing either. “Could you find it again? The rift?”

“I think so.”

“I’m not going to help you get through.”

It shrugs its thin shoulders. “It’s all right. I thought you might not want to. I’ll still take you there, if you like. It’ll be nice to have something to do.”

Hawke rises carefully, keeping an eye on it. Does this count as making a deal? He already told it he wasn’t going to give it anything.

Then he decides he doesn’t have much of a choice here. His other option is wandering aimlessly until he gets eaten by a demon, which seems to him something to be avoided. “All right. Let’s get going.”

The creature stands. Hawke finds its onyx skin reflects the ambient light not as green but as a muted silver-white. “What’s your name?” it asks.

Hawke grunts. “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”

“Then what do I call you?”

He shrugs. “I’m not all that particular.”

“You’re a person, right? Can I call you ‘Person?’ “

“Bit on-the-nose, don’t you think?” Hawke mutters.

“Should I pick something else?”

“No, no. Shall we?”

“All right. Follow me.”

Clarity walks past him across the damp black rock.

——

They walk for a long time.

Hawke thinks it’s a long time. It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t know how much time passes between one thought and the next. When he tries to count his steps the numbers elude him and replacements spring up in the cracks. His count rises in hundreds from one breath to the next, falls in thousands in the breath just after.

He wishes he were hungry. He wishes he were sleepy. Then he might know how long it’s been. The sky is dim and sick. His broken arm still throbs with pain. That’s a sign, at least. If time really were stretching out beneath him, it would feel better, isn’t that right?

Or not. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. Maybe he doesn’t heal. Well, that would be just perfect. “Hey.”

Clarity looks over its shoulder. “Hm?”

Hawke jerks his head to the left, where water glimmers a few miles off (not so far, only a few hundred—doesn’t  _matter,_  he reminds himself, doesn’t matter). “Let’s make a quick stop.”

“All right.”

Water means (might mean) vegetation. He hasn’t got any rope or twine, and he’d rather not cannibalize his armor for straps to make the splint. He heads off to the left. The water never seems to get any closer, and he arrives there in no time.

It’s a pond, surrounded by marshy wetlands. There’s a small group of skeletal trees to one side, huddled mistrustfully just before the ground starts to soften, and Hawke breaks off a couple of the lower branches and stuffs them in his belt. Should be sturdy enough to hold his arm stable. Further in, tall reeds list over the scum-coated water. Hawke starts forging through the marsh, planting his feet on the sprays of wan yellow grass whose dense roots cling desperately to thick, solid clumps of mud. Between the water sits stagnant and gleaming. Hawke avoids it. Wouldn’t be surprised if it tried to swallow him whole.

The pond looks more like slag than water. Hawke grimaces and grasps a bunch of reeds. They’re…warm. Like flesh. That’s disturbing. When he cuts their stems he half-expects them to scream.

No screaming, thank the Maker. He hooks the reeds over the sticks he gathered and—

“Person.”

Hawke turns.

Clarity is standing at the edge of the wetlands, pointing. Hawke’s gaze follows its outstretched finger.

Fenris advances on him through the marsh.

Shit.

Hawke turns and makes for solid ground, glancing over his shoulder every couple of seconds to keep track of Fenris. Who seems to be much more at ease darting across these scattered clumps of mud. The distance between them closes precipitously. Since when is Fenris more agile than him? No time to think about it, because Fenris is—

—on him, and Hawke barely manages to set his feet before he’s fighting.

It’s not a good situation. Not that their first fight was  _easy,_  but Fenris isn’t wavering even a little on this ground, whereas Hawke has excellent balance, true, but he also weighs about seventeen stone, and that’s a lot of weight to manage with only a few tiny clumps of mud to stand on.

And he’s tired. He’s so very tired.

He can’t look forward and back at the same time, so he has to go on the offensive—if he retreats, he’ll either misstep and fall on his ass or take a hit and fall on his ass anyway. So he smacks aside a blow and lashes out. The plan works for a little while. Fenris is less aggressive this time, more circumspect, and allows himself to be attacked. He watches Hawke with wounded eyes, red seeping in at the periphery of his sclera. His brands glitter. The lyrium. It’s worse.

He should have stayed in Kirkwall. Shouldn’t have come with Hawke, shouldn’t have gone on the run. He would have been safer. Wouldn’t have gotten infected.

Hawke misses a strike. Fenris’s fist lands square on his left ribs, low, and he hears the  _pop._  Fuck. That’s a break. He flinches, bending toward that side. A hard kick to his calf, and his foot slips.

And that’s all it takes. Hawke goes over.

He flails a bit, making one last effort to wrench his body weight back to center, which just sends him tumbling off to the the other side instead and thus landing on his outstretched right, still very much broken arm. The pain is enough to make him groan. His hand sinks into the clay, and grimy black water rises up his forearm. His knee is sinking in too. Fenris’s foot arcs out.

Tired as Hawke is, at least his reflexes are still intact. He snatches Fenris’s ankle out of the air and yanks. Fenris falls on top of him with a splash, knocking him on his back. Strands of long, white hair, dotted with spots of mud, brush Hawke's cheek.

There’s a half-second, as Fenris is reorienting himself, where they’re only gazing at each other, as they have a hundred times. A thousand. Through the tumult in Kirkwall, and the hard years since, they’ve always had each other, they’ve always had  _this._  Hawke reaches up— “Fenris—“

Fenris's hand latches around his throat.

Hawke gasps for breath, grabs at Fenris's wrist, tries to slide a finger or two in beneath his palm. He made a mistake. A stupid one. Damn it all. Fenris’s thin fingers squeeze Hawke’s throat, and the other hand clutches at his armor. A third grip at his ankle—

Wait a minute.

Dead arms erupt out of the water.

Fenris rears up, alarmed, releasing Hawke. But he isn't fast enough, and pale hands lock around his red-lined limbs, scrabble at his chest. They're all over Hawke, too, wrapping him up and pinning him, clammy skin sliding over his face. The black water prowls cold and gritty through his armor and clothes.

Escape. He has to escape.

He throws himself to the side with an enormous effort, hugging the nearest clump of mud, dragging himself past it—breaking holds on his legs, his waist, the leather plates of his armor. He slips out from beneath Fenris and points himself toward solid ground again. The dead hands can’t quite get a grip on him—he’s just too big, his wrists and ankles too thick, although they do their damnedest, heaving up from the water and snatching frantically at whatever’s closest. Hawke looks over his shoulder.

Fenris is crawling after him. But his frame is much smaller, his limbs much thinner. The hands swarm him, dragging him down. As Hawke watches he surges forward—only to be recaptured, pale, rotting fingers clutching at his face and twisting in his hair.

“Help me,” he says.

Hawke freezes.

He can’t leave Fenris here. Even if he is mad, and sick, and bent on killing Hawke. He’s still the man Hawke loves, and to abandon him to this—this awful place, these disembodied limbs that seek to drown him—

Fenris surges forward again. He’s closing in. “Hawke. Please help me. I need you.”

_I need you._

Fuck.  _Fuck._  Hawke wrenches away from the hands holding him and swivels—

A soft, high shout tolls through the thick air. “You’ll die!”

Fenris hauls himself another few inches closer. His green eyes fix on Hawke, desperate.

Hawke turns his back and heads once more for the edge of the marsh.

He crawls on his elbows, pushes off of clumps of mud with his feet, bats away the dead hands that claw at him. Fenris is strong. Fenris  _will_  get out of here, though it might take some time. Time enough for Hawke to get as far away as he possibly can.

Clarity lingers by the skeletal trees. Hawke clambers up onto the damp black rock, gasping for breath. Tired. He’s so bloody tired. But there will be no rest for him yet. He staggers to his feet and starts to run.

Behind him Fenris calls his name again. “Hawke.  _Hawke._  I need you.”

Hawke keeps running. Fenris’s voice fades, smothered by the sick green sky.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you x1000 to [ticklishivories](http://ticklishivories.tumblr.com/) who was kind enough to agree to beta this chapter for me!!

Hawke does not stop running until Clarity does.

His feet don’t hurt. That’s a small mercy. Plenty of other things do. That rib Fenris _(not_ Fenris) just broke, each time he heaves in a breath. The gash in his side, torn open from all that writhing around in the mud. His arm—worse than before, he thinks. Must have done something when he landed on it.

He considers lying down here and not moving, waiting for demons to come and pick him apart.

He can’t do that, of course. Instead he just kneels. “Wait. Wait.”

Clarity pauses.

Hawke reaches behind him. One of the sticks he took is unbroken. The other is little more than a stub. The pair of reeds are still there. He assembles a splint. It’s not very stable—less a healing aid than a reminder not to move the damned arm.

“Who was that man?”

Hawke glances up.

Clarity stands, rotating back and forth a little as if restless. Hawke frowns. “Did you get taller?”

It looks down at itself and shrugs its glinting shoulders.

Hawke sighs and stands again. “It wasn’t a man. It was a demon.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Hawke stills.

“It was a spirit.” Clarity starts walking. “The pond tried to swallow it too. Only it turned into a man for you. Who was he?”

Hawke follows. “Someone I left behind. That’s the second time it’s come after me. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve offended it somehow.”

“Maybe it’s like me. Maybe it’s trapped, and it thinks if it finds you the spider will let it out.”

Hawke begins to slow, letting Clarity get ahead of him some.

It looks over its shoulder. “Oh. No, I’m not doing that. I don’t think the spider would let me out for getting you. I think I have better chances going with you and trying to escape through the rift.”

Well, its name is Pragmatism, after all. Hawke starts walking again.

“What if it’s been here so long it’s forgotten what it is? That would be sad.” Clarity bows its head. “I hope that doesn’t happen to me.”

A spirit driven mad. Lovely thought. “Listen, I don’t suppose you know what kind of spirit it is?” Hawke asks. “Because it seems to be able to get in my head, and I’d _really_ like to do something about that.”

“What do you mean?”

Hawke thinks again about keeping his cards close to his chest, but he’s tried that so far and it’s gotten him nowhere. “It…makes me believe that it’s him. That it’s really the man I left behind. Which doesn’t make any sense, because there’s no reason he’d be in the Fade, and yet that never seems to bloody occur to me.”

Clarity nods. “That’s how it protects itself. That’s how it stops you from killing it.”

“Right,” Hawke mutters.

“I can help you.”

“You—you can? You can stop whatever it’s doing to me?”

“Oh. No, I don’t think so.”

Damn it all. “What do you mean, then?”

Clarity looks over its shoulder. “I can make you not care that it’s him. I can help you kill him anyway.”

Hawke narrows his eyes. “No.”

“But it wouldn’t matter. It’s not really him.”

“I’m not going to let you in my head to do that. If I have to, I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.”

“All right,” Clarity says, unbothered. “But if you need my help, you just have to tell me. I like helping.”

“Hm. You do it often, then?”

“Well—I try. It’s strange. People ask for my advice—“ mages, Hawke thinks, visiting the Fade in dreams— “and I tell them how to go about things so that they’ll get what they want. But then they never want to do what I say. So I offer to help them so that they won’t care about doing it. Then a lot of them get angry at me.”

Hawke considers it. A creature that advises reprehensible means, even in pursuit of a just end, could easily come off as a demon. Maybe it _is_ a demon. Hawke has no experience in these things and little way to tell.

“You don’t seem to need it.” Clarity twirls slowly and starts walking backwards, showing its silt-black eyes to Hawke. “My help, I mean. Mostly.”

Hawke shrugs. “Pragmatism’s probably my greatest virtue. In fact, it might be my only one.”

A crinkle in the faceted face. Hawke has the brief impression it’s smiling. He’s getting better at reading it, even though they’ve spent so little time together. “You must have other virtues,” it says. “Everyone’s got more than one. I bet you’ve got a hundred.”

“Right,” he mumbles. “Listen, will it be much longer? It feels like we’ve been walking for days.”

It cocks its head. “Well, we’ve gone some of the way. And there’s some of the way left.”

“That is _extremely_ helpful.”

“That’s another one.”

“What?”

“A virtue. Humor. Circumspection, too. You’re still careful of me. And love.”

Hawke exhales, embarrassed already. “Not sure that one’s high on the list—“

“You must love that man very much if you have so much pragmatism and you still can’t kill him even when he’s trying to murder you.”

He rubs his forehead. “I do love him very much. Which is why I’d like to get out of here sooner rather than later.”

Clarity hesitates. Right. Not great with time. Hawke waves a hand. “Never mind, forget it. Let’s just keep going.”

——

There are more demons.

They had been absent for a while, the accusing corpses, but they’re back again. Hawke takes it as a good sign. Must be getting near something the spider demon doesn’t want him to reach. Soon, then (whatever that means here.) Soon he’ll be back where he’s supposed to be. Hawke wonders how long it’s been. He doesn’t think any answer would surprise him. He could pop out a few miles east of Adamant and spot the Inquisition forces marching by, just now starting to head home. Or he could tumble onto the sand and find red lyrium deposits sprouting up all around him, Thedas gone to utter shit, Corypheus ten years its ruler…

He hopes that won’t be the case.

Still, if it’s been longer than a few weeks, Varric has probably sent news to Fenris about the events at Adamant. Which means Fenris will think he’s dead. Hawke, dragging himself up a steep ridge of rock, curses himself. That will require a lot of apologies. (To Varric, too.) The Inquisitor probably told them how he _insisted_ on being the one to stay and cover the escape. On being the one to die.

So yes, plenty of apologizing. And then a nice relaxing bath and three hot meals all in a row and napping for a very long time with Fenris curled up next to him, or on top of him, Hawke isn’t picky. It’s the nap he’s looking forward to the most. He didn’t know it was possible to be as exhausted as he is now _._ Not to mention Fenris sleeping peacefully might be the most heartwarming thing he’s ever set eyes on.

Hawke slides carefully down the other side of the ridge. He decides to indulge himself for a moment to imagine the return. He doesn’t know where Fenris will be—perhaps he’ll go back to Kirkwall, familiar as it is. And Hawke will find whatever place he’s holed up in and knock on the door, calling out. And Fenris will answer—

Hawke skips over the shouting (on Fenris’s part) and the apologizing (on his own part) to get to the moment when finally, at last, they embrace. As they’ve done a thousand times before, Fenris’s arms wrapping tight and wiry around his back, and Hawke holding Fenris’s thin body to his chest, just as he remembers—

Just as he—

Hawke’s foot slips on the steep slope and he scrabbles at the loose scree, gasping at a nauseating jolt of pain from his broken arm as the weight of his body yanks at it. The scabs on his palm are stripped off, and dirt and chips of stone sting at his open skin. He lands hard on the flat rock at the bottom, bends his legs and rolls onto his side.

Above him Clarity descends, picking its way down the slope with the same ease it showed scampering up the face of the ridge. “Did you get hurt?”

Hawke sits up, cradling his injured arm.

What in the Void just happened to him? He was thinking of Fenris when suddenly he had the sense—no, not the sense, he _knew_ , he was absolutely _sure_ that it was only a pleasant dream he’d had, that all of it, all his life before was just some flight of fancy. That this, the Fade, was the only real thing.

He takes a deep, shaking breath, wincing as his broken rib complains.

Clarity crouches in front of him. “Did you get—“

“The first time we kissed was the eighth of Bloomingtide,” Hawke blurts out. “He’d had a really bad day. I knocked on his door in the evening, but there was no answer. So I went home and there he was. He was…terrified, sort of. So was I, I suppose.” He rubs his eyes with his good hand. “I’d been in love with him for…I don’t know. Months, by that point. At least.”

Clarity rests its chin on its knees. “You can get to the rift. If you walk some more, and you kill all the demons who try to stop you, you can get there. The rift is your best chance of going back.”

That’s right. He’s already gone some of the way, and there’s only some of the way left. He just has to keep walking. It’s not going to be _easy,_ exactly—he’s tired, he’s so bloody tired—but he _can_ do it.

“Let me just clean out my hand,” he says. “Then we’ll be on our way again.”

Clarity nods. “You can keep talking to me. About the man you love very much.”

Hawke hesitates. He’s secretive as a rule, but here, away from anyone else, losing his hold on what’s real and what isn’t…

“We didn’t really get together until three years later,” he tells Clarity, drawing a small stone splinter out of his bloodied palm. “He stayed the night, and the next morning we lay in bed for hours, until my stomach started rumbling and he laughed at me and said we should go down for breakfast…”

It helps. The reality of the situation settles back into place. When the hand is as clean as he can get it, he rises and follows Clarity once more under the low green sky.

——

There are more demons.

Greater in number now. But Clarity always seems to spot them early, and Hawke can plan his attack, take them out singly or in pairs rather than facing the whole pack at once. They’re not very smart, but they are good at hiding—they slink down from trees or crawl out of puddles, shallow depressions that shouldn’t be able to conceal much of anything. Somehow Clarity always knows where they are— _the branches weren’t moving right,_ it says, or _there were ripples in the water._

Hawke figures he should be noticing those things himself, although whenever he tries to keep an eye on the landscape he seems to walk much slower, and when he’s looked at one thing he never seems to notice the rest of his surroundings.

Not to worry. The spirit’s doing a good enough job at lookout. Hawke decides to preserve his energy.

“There are a lot of them.”

Hawke pauses.

They’ve been walking along the base of a high spine of rock. Clarity gazes ahead. “Do you see?”

The spine cuts off a few yards ahead. Beyond it there’s a glow of bright green spread out on the black rock, blazing now and then with a vivid splash of light. Wispy susurrations swirl through it.

Shadows. Of whatever’s guarding the crackling rift. They’ve arrived, finally, _finally._ Hawke edges forward, flattened against the spine, and peers around the edge to gauge the situation.

It’s not optimal.

The rift is there, high up on the slope of another ridge—above the slope, really, sitting against a vertical rock wall. The wall looks craggy, at least, and climbable. The slope itself is covered in scree.

And corpses.

Hawke counts. Twelve of them. If he takes that many at once they’ll rip him apart. There’s not even a shrub for cover on the flat stretch of stone between here and there. He might be able to lead them off and get a few seconds’ head start to climb the scree and reach the rock wall, but that slope will be treacherous—more so for him than them, probably, considering everything he’s met here has had inexplicably perfect balance. They’ll catch him up before he hits the wall, no doubt.

And then they’ll rip his limbs off and use them to beat him to death or something to that effect. No. He has to get rid of them first, somehow. He ducks back behind the spine. “I don’t suppose you’re any good in a fight?”

Clarity shakes its head. “I’m only good for helping.”

“Right,” Hawke says faintly.

He draws both his daggers and hovers a moment. The rift is right there. Escape from this awful bloody place, only twenty yards away. He just has to get there. Just has to…

He folds his arms over his chest and sinks down to the base of the stone wall at his back.

Clarity crouches. “Is something the matter?”

Hawke hugs himself. “Pragmatism, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “I think you know what the matter is.”

It nods. “They’re stronger than you. Up the ridge they’re faster than you. You have to kill them to get to the rift. But there are a lot.”

“Yes.”

“You probably can’t do it by yourself.”

“No.”

“But there’s no one else. And you don’t know any other way out. And you want to get back to the man you love very much. So you have to try.”

“Yes.”

Clarity stares off into the distance for a moment as if thinking. “Good luck.”

He snorts. “Not a very pragmatic thing to say.”

It shrugs. “I was going to say ‘there’s a very good chance you’ll die’ but I didn’t think you would want to hear it.”

Hawke tips his head back against the spine and grins. “It’s all right, I don’t mind.”

“Well, there’s a very good chance you’ll die but good luck anyway.”

“That’s better.” 

He rises and strides out onto open ground.

The demons spot him, two dozen sad eyes watching his approach (not quite two dozen—half of Lady Elegant’s face is burned away, and Ser Melinda Drake hasn’t got any eyes left at all). They begin to descend. That’s good, at least. If they were smarter, they’d make him fight on the slope, but they’re not.

He goes to meet them.

Tempting to draw them over to the spine, to put his back up against a solid wall so they can’t surround him. But that’ll cut down hard on his escape options. He’ll just have to take his chances on the flat. They come across the black stone. The first one reaches out.

They’re grabby. Hawke doesn’t like that. A bad mix with their blasted demon strength. But at least their fingers tend to fall open when he stabs their arms. Either because this shape mimics all the underlying structures of a real body and severing a tendon works like it’s supposed to, or because the pain startles them.

They do feel pain. Hawke sees the flinches, how Rory Carrick, fifteen years old, begins to sniffle and sob when Hawke gets him in the gut. Doesn’t stop trying to gouge Hawke’s eyes out, though, which is a good enough motivator to keep fighting. Eye-gouging is bad, and best avoided. Grabbing is bad, and best avoided. The third option is hitting, which is also bad, but less bad than the other two things, and Hawke can’t afford that much focus. There are twelve of them.

So he takes some hits.

He absorbs what he can, moving with the force of the blows, protecting his head over his body. The strikes aren’t all bad. The demons leave themselves open when they extend. Sometimes Hawke has the space to take advantage. (Other times there are a bunch of grubby dead fingers clawing at his face and he has other things to worry about.) He hurts them, his knives coming away smeared in black blood and bits of viscera, and dances across the rock, trying to keep his back open. He draws one off of the pack and kills it. Kills a second.

But it’s a balance: how much time he has to attack, and how much he has to take to defend himself. Already tilted out of his favor, but when they close behind him that’ll be it. He can’t defend himself on all sides, let alone attack at the same time.

There are too many. There isn’t any cover here. Hawke tries to retreat again, only for a pale corpse to register at the edge of his vision. He stops himself just in time from colliding with it. They’ve closed behind him.

It’s done then. A foregone conclusion already, now only a matter of time. Of seconds. One of them stumbles over a loose stone. He kills it. There’s another right behind it, grabbing his wrist. He struggles to free himself. Savage blows to his ribs and back, a kick to his ankle that sends him down to a knee. Fuck. They bear down on him. Sharp fingernails cut open his cheek, scraping the skin away. He defends his front but can’t do anything about the blows thumping down on his back. Too much for the armor. A _pop_ as a rib breaks at his left flank. Another on his right. He gasps in pain. They’re all he can see now. He always suspected he might die surrounded by demons. A kick to his head that sets his ear ringing. He just hoped he wouldn’t be alone when it finally happened. But perhaps it’s better this way. So Fenris doesn’t have to see his broken body crumpled on the damp rock—

Fast movement through the throng. The demons turn, distracted. Hawke has a split-second to peer through their bodies. Fighting in the back, and a glimmer of livid red.

No. Can’t be.

Shit. Someone’s trying to hit him. Callie Bay, who lived across the square from Gamlen’s house. He blocks with his _bloody_ right arm—lost the dagger he was holding in that hand a while ago, doesn’t even know why he drew it—stabs her in the thigh with his one remaining dagger. She buckles. Most of the other demons have been distracted by the slim, white-haired elf who’s cutting them down.

Oh. That’s where the other dagger went.

What Fenris lacks in skill he makes up for in ferocity. He slices throats and cleaves limbs, and his strength matches that of the demons. Rotten blood splashes on the ground. Hawke gets up off his ass, his ribs screaming in protest, and starts contributing to the killing. He works much better like this, when his opponents’ attentions are split. Maybe Fenris is trying to protect him. Maybe the madness has receded.

A bright sparkle in the rift-light. Crystals, growing from Fenris’s brands. Red lyrium crystals.

He’s worse.

Hawke leaves the last demon to Fenris. Gives him time to back up, to prepare himself. Time for some pragmatism. _Fenris won’t let me up that slope to the rift,_ he thinks. _I need to stop him. I need to—_

Fenris yanks his knife out of the last demon’s chest, turns to Hawke, and attacks.

Disarm him. First order of business. Lot easier if he weren’t so bloody strong. Hawke feints, drawing a strike, and grabs Fenris’s arm when it extends. On the inside of the stab, so he twists the wrist, hooks the forearm in his elbow and levers his own forearm down. Fenris bends forward reflexively at the pressure on his shoulder, and there’s a clatter as his hand springs open and the knife falls from his grasp.

Then his heel sweeps Hawke’s foot out, and they both go down.

Hawke’s skull bounces off the stone. Dazed, he just has time to realize that he’s lost the hold before Fenris’s fist smashes into his jaw. Fuck. His vision blackens, and his ears fill with the sound of a rushing river. No. Not over yet. He twists, putting his arms up to protect his head. The rain of punches comes down on him. When Fenris hits his broken arm the jolt of stomach-turning pain clears his head a bit. Damn it all. Too fast, too strong. This keeps up, Fenris is going to break his other arm too. Hawke needs an advantage, needs information. He ducks his head and tries to figure out what he can do. Fenris is straddling on one of his legs right now, but the other one’s free. Hawke would chastise him for that if they were sparring—an excuse Hawke must have used a hundred times in Kirkwall just to spend time with him, the two of them sweating in the grass of the city guard’s training ground, clutching and grappling at each other, each grinning all the while—

Another shock of pain in the arm. _Ow._ Fenris is stronger with the red lyrium, but he’s not any heavier. Hawke plants his foot and rolls. Somewhere during the roll Fenris punches him in the nose, and Hawke reels, flailing a hand back, landing on his ass. Shit. He scrambles to his feet, and Fenris does the same. Hawke finds he’s lost his own knife somewhere.

There’s a split-second where they just face each other. Fenris’s silhouette is different, crystals standing out at the peaks of his shoulders like the spikes on the spaulders he used to wear, and more shapes in jagged red running up his arms, jutting from the brands on his legs. He’s sick, he’s _sick._ Hawke falters. If he’d only stayed where it was safe—if he hadn’t decided to go with Hawke on the run—

Fenris launches himself forward with a snarl.

Hawke defends. He sees the strikes coming. That’s not the hard part. The hard part is not taking them. Blocking _hurts,_ no matter which arm he uses. Desperate, he puts in a few attacks of his own. Fenris doesn’t bother avoiding any of them. Hawke feels the impacts land—connects once, twice, three times with blows that should have put Fenris on the rock. Each time Fenris’s head snaps to the side for a half-second before he’s lashing out again.

Hawke dodges, blocks _(pain),_ diverts. He’s tired. He’s so bloody tired. And Fenris, of course, isn’t. Hawke can’t outlast him. Can’t knock him out.

“Look down!”

Clarity. Hawke glances at his feet. A glint of steel.

One of his knives.

He leans down and scoops it up without thinking, takes a nasty shot to the ribs for it. Another _pop._ Vaguely he wonders if he’s got any ribs left that aren’t broken. But he circles back, armed now. Why did he do that? Why did he pick up the knife?

Clarity’s voice again. “I can help!”

A foggy memory of a conversation they had a long time ago. Hawke dodges, pivots, grunts as a strike hits his shoulder. _I can help you._

_No,_ he’d replied. _If I have to, I’ll do it myself, thank you very much._

Fenris won’t let him up that slope to the rift. Hawke needs to stop him. Can’t knock him out. Another blow, blocked with the bad arm _(fuck)._ There are no dead hands springing out of the ground to grab him. No holes to toss him in.

_It’ll be a mercy._ Hawke catches himself thinking that and stops, instantly. It’s the kind of bullshit justification he’d feed an offended party after one of his less civil exploits. Stupid—shameful, really—to be saying that sort of thing to himself. Since when has he needed platitudes to stomach his own damned decisions?

There are a series of actions he needs to take to achieve his goal. Getting up the slope. Climbing the rock wall.

And he can’t do that if Fenris is still alive.

The decision is almost a relief. He has a plan now. The steps are clear. The next time Fenris comes forward Hawke lets him close, blocks once more with his bad arm, and then stabs Fenris in the gut.

That gets a reaction. Fenris grunts and curls in on himself. Hawke clears the dagger and goes low, driving it into his knee. He buckles. Hawke does the other knee too, just in case, then rises and strikes out. The pommel smashes into Fenris’s nose, and he arcs backwards, landing flat-out on the rock. At last. Hawke straddles his hips.

Fenris gazes up at him with red-stained eyes. “Hawke.”

Hawke flinches a little, but his inner calm remains absolute. He tilts Fenris’s chin up.

Fenris reaches up and grasps his hand. Gently. “Hawke. Please don’t.”

_A mercy—_ no. He’s doing it because it’s pragmatic. Fenris is sick. Hawke might be able to get him better by dragging him through the rift to a healer. But they won’t get that far, because Fenris will kill him at the first opportunity.

So he can’t pursue that plan. But he can get through the rift himself, if he kills Fenris now.

“Hawke, please. I love you.” Fenris strokes Hawke’s hand. “Please don’t do this. I need help. I need you.”

Yes. Hawke is Fenris’s only hope. But it’ll be too dangerous to save him, if it’s even possible. So Hawke’s not going to try. He digs his thumb in and finds the bounding pulse at the point of Fenris’s jaw.

Then he slits the vessel with his knife.

The spray of blood is remarkably strong. Hawke raises his head so it doesn’t hit his face. Fenris’s eyes flare a little, and he goes to cover the wound, groping clumsily. Hawke just sits on top of his hips for a moment, watching Fenris try without avail to hold the wound closed.

Then his stomach twists, and he flings the dagger aside. “No—no, I’m sorry—“ He slips his hand beneath Fenris’s and presses it to the gaping slit. How could he do that? Bright red blood pumps eagerly out between his fingers. It’s a good cut, clean and wide. The bleeding can’t be stopped. Fenris will be dead in seconds. How could he—to the man he loves more than anything in the whole world—and so _easily,_ he just did it, just like that—

Fenris watches Hawke, afraid, and grasps weakly at his wrist. “Hawke—why did you—“

The blood pools on the stone, soaks into his long white hair. After a moment Hawke sits back a little, the press of his fingers relaxing. His hand is covered by now, warm and red. With his thumb he traces the line of Fenris’s jaw, then strokes his face, smearing his cheek with blood.

Fenris blinks slowly, his eyes growing unfocused, slipping from Hawke to some point off in the distance. The tension goes out of him inch by inch.

When he dies Hawke feels it.

No great wrench of grief or self-disgust. It’s a tight, heady swivel of his perceptions, a realization that he’s sitting on some grotesque facsimile rather than the corpse of the man he loves. The relief makes him laugh, and the laughter makes him groan and hold his chest. Too many broken ribs from that fight, not to mention more bruises than he can count.

“I’m sorry.”

Hawke only sits there for a minute, his good hand splayed on the rock. His broken arm rests on Fenris’s motionless chest. His armor is tight around it. It must be swollen to the size of a Summerday squash by now. He considers for a moment not breathing anymore. Inside the armor his chest is wrapped in pain. He coughs a little and the hot burn of agony makes his eyes prick with tears. That’s a bit embarrassing. Blood seeps from his cut-up cheeks and tongue into his mouth, and he spits it weakly on the ground.

Of course he has to breathe. And he has to stand up, too. Silly to get all this way only to give up now. He rises with a groan and faces Clarity. 

“All right, you’re _definitely_ bigger,” he mutters.

The spirit stands there, watching him. Up to his shoulders now. “You did it yourself, though. You really do have a lot of clarity.”

_Pragmatism. Ruthlessness._

Hawke nods at the corpse. “This thing had excellent timing.”

No reply.

As he thought. “You brought it here, didn’t you?”

It nods. “I thought the demons might go after it too, since it got attacked by the pond. And then there wouldn’t be so many things for you to fight. It’s been trailing us for a while, I could see it behind us. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but—“

“—I might have been distracted. No, I get it. It makes a lot of sense.” He picks up his bloodied knife, spots the other one a few yards away and retrieves it, slipping it into its sheath. The first he keeps in hand, the leather grip warm against his palm.

Clarity has been helpful. He still hasn’t any idea whether it’s a spirit or a demon, but it’s been helpful. Not only in leading him to the rift, or fetching not-Fenris at the end there. Just as a second voice, a comfort in the hostile madness of this place.

So he does feel badly about this. But it doesn’t matter.

“I felt that,” it whispers.

Hawke turns.

It’s grown again, one last time—taller, eye-to-eye with him now, and broader of shoulder. “It’s all right,” it tells him. “I understand. It’s too risky letting me out of here.”

“I’m sorry. Really,” Hawke replies. “Without you I’d be dead.”

“Maybe I’ll wake up again.” Its glinting features shift into a smile. “Maybe when I do I’ll be somewhere else.”

Hawke approaches once more. He rests a hand on its back, on the soft, warm skin there, and slips his knife into its chest. It gazes at the buried blade curiously and makes no sound.

Then its great, heavy body crumples. He holds it to himself and lets it down slowly. On the ground its onyx skin sparkles silver-white in the rift-light.

Hawke stands again, cleaning off his knife. “Bit of a bastard, aren’t you, Rowan?” he mutters.

The climb up the slope shouldn’t be possible, not with the pain that follows him, the exhaustion that drags at his limbs; likewise the ascension up the rock wall. But the sight of the crackling rift, so close now, keeps him going. He clings to a groove in the rock, jams his toes into a narrow crack, pushes himself upward. 

Lightning lashes from the rift and strikes him. It’s hot. Blazing hot. It burns him to his bones.

Then he falls.

——

Through the air, but only a short distance before he collides with solid ground. Solid, sloped ground. So he rolls, curling up and covering his head in a desperate effort to save himself any more injury.

The tumble is fortunately not very long, and it ends in a shallow, cold splash.

Hawke lies still for a brief moment. It seems he’s fallen in another river. This one is much less ugly than the last one. The sky is a pale blue, occluded some by high, leafy trees. He watches a grey-bellied cloud drift past.

Then he flips onto his knees and scoops water in his hands, drinking it down as fast as he can manage. Never been this thirsty in his life. The rest of it hits him very quickly, all at once. Dizzy. Starving. _Tired,_ tired, so bloody tired. He stops drinking for a moment, takes a few shuddering breaths. A plan. He needs a plan.

Water. Sleep. Then more water, and food. Then figuring out what forest this is and where to go from here.

Good plan. Good enough for now. He drinks until he feels sick and then crawls up the opposite bank, a much more leisurely slope, until the ground flattens. At last. He flops down on the carpet of leaves and closes his eyes.

——

The journey east isn’t particularly easy, but compared to the Fade it’s a summer’s walk in the park. Hawke steals where he has to, but never more than he needs. The days slip past him, each one a little more urgently than the last. He has to find Fenris. Fenris has to know he’s alive.

His reputation might be enough to buy him passage to Kirkwall, but he doesn’t want the attention that would bring down on his head. So instead he steals some more and buys passage the old-fashioned way. The brigantine is light and quick, although it rolls rather more than Hawke would like. Still, only two days at sea and then he’s walking out onto the Kirkwall docks.

It’s been a long time.

He keeps his hood up so as not to be accosted by admirers and heads for the Hanged Man, which is the worst tavern but the best locus of information in the city. He plans to ask if anyone’s seen a white-haired elf shuffling about anywhere, maybe offer a reward—that’ll require more stealing, but this is Lowtown, stealing is practically an established part of the economy. So he pushes the door open with his hip and slips inside, scans the afternoon’s clientele—

“Maker’s balls.”

A familiar voice.

Hawke grins. “Good to see you too, Varric.”

Varric navigates his way between the tables, letting out a guffaw. “I should’ve guessed you’d be back. As if one measly Veil could stop Rowan Hawke. Hey, barkeep! Pour us a couple.”

“Listen, much as I’d love to stay and drink, I’m afraid I’ve got some business to attend to,” Hawke tells him.

Varric nods thoughtfully. “You want to go to him.”

“Right. D’you know where he is?”

A grimace. “He came down here demanding answers a couple days ago. I…didn’t have much more to tell him. I’ve been putting him up in a place up near Hightown. He—he didn’t look so good, last I saw.”

Hawke stays a few moments to down the pint of ale—just as vile as he remembers, excellent—and then heads off to the address Varric described to him.

It’s a tall apartment building close to the base of the stairs. A bit dim, Hawke notes, as he ducks into the low atrium and finds the stairwell. But quiet—no one shouting or squabbling from the other apartments. Hawke climbs, one, two, three floors, and steps out. The hallway is close, and Hawke trails his fingers along the wall as he goes, over the wallpaper in muted grass-green. Scanning the doors, he finds the number Varric mentioned. Almost there, almost. It feels like it’s been ages.

He steels himself and takes a deep breath, preparing his list of apologies. Then he knocks. “Fenris?”

No reply.

Is he out? Asleep, perhaps. Hawke knocks again. “Fenris? It’s Hawke. I’m, er—not dead. Sorry.”

Still no reply. Hawke tries the handle.

It’s unlocked, and the door drifts open in front of him.

Anemic light filters through the gauze curtain. Fenris stands by the window, his back to the door. But he turns around at Hawke’s entrance. His skin is ashen gray, and his hair is long and unkempt. His sunken eyes glow the same grass-green as the wallpaper outside. A stark contrast to the livid red of his lyrium brands, wrapped like varicosities around his naked body.

Hawke stands frozen, his whole body gone numb. “N—no—“

Fenris’s face twists in wounded anger. He walks forward, the lyrium glow sheathing his arm in a haze of translucent red, and sticks his hand through Hawke’s stomach. An awful tearing feeling as he wrenches it out, and something soft and slick cascades out of Hawke’s middle and onto the wooden floor. Hawke crumples to his knees, clutching his gut, shaking his head. Failed. After all that, he still failed. This was always going to happen. Fenris should never have come with him out of Kirkwall. He should have stayed away, stayed safe. “No—“ Hawke chokes out. “No, please, I’m sorry—“

Fenris reaches down and strokes his face. Hawke feels the warm smear of blood over his skin, reaches up to hold Fenris’s hand one last time—

——

He wakes with a jolt and only just manages to drag himself to one side before he throws up.

Dry heaves, mostly. Some clear, thick liquid that he spits out onto the dead leaves. His stomach is empty. _It wasn’t real,_ he thinks. _It was a dream. It was only a dream—_ but how much? How much was _only_ a dream? What is this, now? The daring, pitched battle, and escape at last, what were those? When did the dream begin?

Hawke curls up on his knees and presses his hands to his eyes, making a small, frightened noise deep in his throat. He goes over it in his head again and again. Sucks in deep breaths, gasping at the pain in his ribs. How can he tell? How can he know for sure?

The sun was just starting to set when he awoke but by the time he sits back the sky is deep orange, and the wind through the leaves has sharpened, a slight chill cutting through his armor. He can’t be _sure,_ of course. No one can ever be sure. But he thinks he escaped. He’s still tired, after all, and bloody _starved._

He squints at the sky. If it’s only dusk, he must not have slept very long. But he doesn’t think he’d like to have another go at it. Not if he’s going to be put through an ordeal like that again. To see Fenris sick, incurable, to know that he himself was the one responsible—

Hawke covers his mouth with one hand. No. That isn’t what happened. Fenris is fine, Fenris _has_ to be fine. Fuck. Hawke misses him badly, worse now that he’s managed to crawl out of the Fade. Because he still needs to get there, needs to finish out the journey. And—as he has not done in so very long—he has to do it alone. 

His ribs hurt. His arm hurts. His whole body hurts. But he must go alone.

He gathers his plan up and goes over it once more, amending as needed. Water. Sleep—that was a bust. Then more water. Good idea. He staggers to his feet and makes his way to the river again, drinking carefully so as not to disturb his fragile stomach. Next comes food, and then figuring out where he is.

A clear, simple series of actions. With that he can do anything. Hawke rises and goes back up the bank, searching for a particularly tall tree to climb.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to [ticklishivories](http://ticklishivories.tumblr.com/) for editing this chapter!

Hawke heads northwest.

Not where he should be going. He should be going east. This is, after all, southern Orlais. (A mixture of trees, leafy and pine—beeches in the former category, and in the latter squat firs with long, soft needles rather than the short spiny ones common in Ferelden. Southern Orlais is a guess, yes, but it’s a good one.)

But he had clambered up as high as he could on a particularly fat beech and spotted a wispy plume of smoke to the northwest, so that’s where he’s going. And after that, further north, where he thinks he saw civilization off in the distance.

Walking hurts.

It hurts and it’s going to hurt. And there won’t be anyone to complain to. The feeble splint he made for his arm in the Fade is gone, lost in that fight with the demons. He doesn’t want to stop to make another one. It doesn’t matter. He just has to keep going.

Darkness falls. The bloom of firelight in the distance guides him to his destination.

A pair of people, a man and a woman sitting across from each other, the campfire between them. Hawke has not been subtle about his approach, and they look up, alerted by his crashing through the leaves. Past them a pony munches at a feedbag.

Hawke waves. “Evening.” He coughs a little. His voice rasps. “This is going to sound like an odd question, but I don’t suppose you could tell me what day it is?”

“Er—“ The woman answers in an Orlesian accent. “The twentieth of Kingsway.”

The twentieth of Kingsway.

Shit. He’s been gone six weeks. Hawke rubs his eyes. “Right. Sorry. I’ve been a bit lost, you see.”

“Lost?” the man says. “These woods aren’t very big—“

The woman shoots him a glare. “Not everyone’s a woodsman, Firmin.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Listen,” Hawke puts in. “I hate to impose, but I’m absolutely famished—I don’t suppose you’ve a bit of food you could spare? Although I’m afraid I haven’t anything to pay you back with.”

The man shrugs. “Of course you’re—“

“Have you been in a fight?” the woman asks sharply. “You look—injured.”

Hawke’s sure he does. He knows his face is swollen, scraped and bruised. But he can’t exactly tell them he just popped out of a rift—

“You’ve—you’ve got blood.” The man gestures down at Hawke’s hand.

Hawke lifts it. Ah. Some residual smears that didn’t get washed away in the river. With that and the armor and the daggers at his belt and the way he materialized out of the dark, he probably looks like he just killed someone. Or several someones. Which isn’t  _wrong,_  although— “It’s not—it’s not that bad—“

They stare in faint horror. Hawke tries to think of an explanation. He prides himself on his ability to come up with detailed, plausible lies when put on the spot, but right now he’s simply too exhausted. He sighs and mutters, “Would this go faster if I just threatened you?”

Both of them start a little. Shit. Now he’s done it. Been too long in the Fade, he’s forgotten how to talk to people. Well, in for a penny. “Right.” He draws a knife and gestures with it. “Both of you scram or I’ll slit your throats right now and leave you for the wolves.”

They stumble to their feet and flee into the night. A gratifyingly quick result. Hawke sits by the fire and inspects the animal roasting on a spit above it. Rabbit, looks like. Not quite done.

Hawke pulls it off the fire and eats it anyway.

He has to force himself to take small bites, because he hasn’t eaten anything in…six weeks. Shit. Well, Varric might have put off writing the letter, and there’s no telling how long it took to track Fenris down…still, six weeks is stretching it. And he still has to get back to Ferelden. (Skyhold makes the most sense, not Kirkwall, as he dreamed about. Varric’s the one who knows everything, he might know where Fenris is.)

Hawke finds himself feeling ill after only a handful of bites, so he sets the rabbit back on the spit to finish cooking while he inspects the camp, taking what he needs. He does feel a little bit bad about this, but he figures those two will survive the trip back north to the buildings he spotted—a day’s travel, perhaps not even that. He pulls up the tent and packs it up, finds the pony laden with animal skins wrapped in leather. So they were furriers. He doesn’t know enough to sell the skins himself, so he leaves them.

He does take the pony. Might be able to sell it and use the money for a real mount. And he doesn’t want to journey alone. Nice to have someone to talk to, even if they can’t talk back.

So he puts together a makeshift torch, lights it in the fire, and leads the pony north through the dark forest.

——

Hawke does not sleep.

Not on purpose, at least. He dozes in the saddle now and then. Occasionally he begins to slip to one side and must rouse himself before he crashes to the ground and disturbs his battered ribcage or swollen-up arm. Two or three times he grows too exhausted to ride and must lie down to attempt sleep.

He dreams again each time and wakes up panicking, breathless, his eyes blurred with tears. Each time it takes him several long, tortured minutes to reassure himself, to gather the strength to stand and continue on.

So he avoids sleep as best he can. The horses tire, of course, and he sells them every couple of days to buy fresh ones. He sells his armor too. It’s well-made, if well-used. He buys new clothes and boots with the money and burns his old ones one brisk evening.

And he rides.

Eating is more difficult than he’d like. After throwing up what little he ate of the rabbit and waiting a good ten minutes afterwards until the agony in his chest subsided enough for him to stand, he decided to try less challenging foods. Bread upsets his stomach, but he keeps it down, which is the important part. Thus he buys bread (or steals it, depending on the ease of the operation).

So he still can’t sleep, nor can he eat—not in any way he cares about. Not much better than the Fade, really. He supposes that he’s almost completely sure his horse isn’t trying to trick him into making some insidious deal that will claim his soul at an inopportune time, so there’s one improvement.

It doesn’t matter anyway. None of it does. The only thing that matters is heading east, as quickly as he can manage. Pushing his horse even to a trot is too painful, every step jarring his broken bones, but he makes up for it by riding through the nights. The Frostbacks appear in the distance and draw gently closer. Hawke loses track of time. The sky darkens and grows light and darkens again. Thinking about it one night he realizes abruptly he doesn’t care. The passage of time was a luxury that left him in the Fade. He survived without it, and he doesn’t really need it here. There are two points: the rift he fell out of, and Skyhold. He’s gone some of the way, and there’s some of the way left.

The ground rises. The air grows cool with the altitude. Hawke sleeps propped up against a rock in the hopes that it will keep him uncomfortable enough to prevent dreams. It does. He wakens, as always, exhausted. But he doesn’t slip out of the saddle anymore.

Some of the way left.

Small camps of Inquisition soldiers slip by as he ascends the pass through the Frostbacks. A couple of the soldiers wave at him as he rides past. It takes a great effort of will for him to return the gesture. He’s got his hood up, not that he’d be recognized without it. He’s dead, after all. Emphatically.

Skyhold looms. The gates are open, and a short queue of visitors bunches up in front of it. Hawke takes his place at the back, shading his eyes from the morning sun. Before him a man in templar armor holds the reins of a horse; astride the horse sits a robed woman with hunched shoulders. Gazing behind, Hawke sees a small cart making its winding way up the mountain.

The line shuffles forward. Hawke goes under the gate, and a woman holding a sheet of paper and a quill glances up at him. “Name?”

“Rowan Hawke,” he replies dully.

Silence.

He looks down. She’s staring, open-mouthed, her quill frozen in the air. “D’you know where I can find Varric Tethras?” he asks.

The frayed tip of the quill rotates in the air and jabs across the courtyard. The tavern. “Thanks,” Hawke says, and dismounts. The impact runs straight to his ribs and sends him to a knee, but he staggers to his feet and makes his way across the grass.

The tavern’s only half-full at this hour. Off to the side he finds Varric, back to the door, shuffling a deck of cards. To his right, the Qunari—who was there in the Fade, and not the least bit happy about it either—and to his left the elf archer. Across from him, the boy in the floppy hat.

The Qunari’s the first one to look up. He freezes for a moment, staring; then he mutters, “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

The boy is the next to spot him and frowns. “Something’s wrong.”

The Qunari reaches for the greataxe leaning against his chair. The boy jumps in hastily. “No! Don’t hurt him!”

The archer starts hard when she sees him and shoots to her feet, backing away into the corner. Varric doesn’t say anything and doesn’t move.

“Sorry,” Hawke says. “It took me a while to find a way out. Only managed it a few days ago.”

“Yeah. How’d you get out, exactly?” the Qunari growls.

“You wanted a friend but didn’t want one,” the boy interrupts. “It shouldn’t have been kind but it was. It’s all right, it’s not really dead! It doesn’t always have to end that way!”

Right. Hawke puts forward his own version of events. “I ran and hid from the nightmare demon. Found a spirit that pointed me to a rift. I went through.”

The Qunari grunts. The boy reaches out and grasps his hand. “He’s telling the truth, it’s only him! It’s—well, there aren’t any demons.”

The Qunari relaxes, finally. Varric pushes his chair back and stands and comes over.

For a moment they just sort of look at each other. Varric’s inspecting him like he’s an expensive painting that might be a forgery. “So, you got out, huh? Just like that.”

Hawke begins to sigh and winces instead. “I wouldn’t call it ‘just like that.’ “

“Hm.” Varric nods. “Listen, this might come off as weird, but I don’t really give a shit.”

“What?”

“Would you mind all that much if I hugged you?”

“Oh, please don’t.”

He raises his hands. “Okay, sorry, I know you’re not the—“

Hawke grins. “I’ve got broken ribs, Varric, that’s all.”

“Huh. You know, that doesn’t surprise me.” He tries to grin in reply, but it’s tired and strained. “You look like shit. Have you eaten anything since you walked out of the Fade?”

“I’ve had some bread.”

“Bread? That’s it?”

Hawke thinks about it. “I had an apple once. Never tried anything else. I threw up the first night, and it really,  _really_  hurt.” He rests a hand gingerly on his ribcage.

Varric exhales. “Okay. Well, you’ve been back a few days, so what do you say we try something a little more substantial?”

Hawke waves a hand. “I’m fine, I can survive a—”

 _“Hawke.”_  Varric shuts his eyes for a second. His smile has strained down to nearly nothing. “How about you do your old pal Varric a favor and take care of yourself? For once?”

Oh. “Er—all right.”

“Good. Come on, let’s sit down.”

They sit. Hawke puts his feet up on the table stretcher and finds Varric’s boots propped up beside his, leaning on him slightly. Hawke stays where he is. The point of contact is a reassurance, for both of them, he thinks. He eats while Varric talks, updating him on the aftershocks of Adamant and what’s been going on since. Hawke finds the food doesn’t make him sick, which is a pleasant surprise. He’s only just finished when the boy in the hat appears beside his table. Hawke jumps, snatching up the butter knife from his plate. Where in the Void did he come from?

“Something’s wrong,” the boy says plaintively. “It’s— _folded_ , fingers furrowing, fighting. You’re fallow.”

Hawke lifts an eyebrow and glances at Varric, who intercedes. “Okay, kid, why don’t you try that one again?”

“It’s—” He frowns, frustrated. “It’s hard to make it into words. The Veil is  _wrong_. Go see Solas, he’ll know how to fix it.”

Solas. The elven mage who was also in the Fade with the Inquisitor. A quiet, amiable man whom Hawke mistrusted deeply from the moment he first spoke. Hard to say why, but Hawke has learned to lean on his instinct. Still,  _the Veil is wrong_  sounds rather worrying, and something that should be fixed as soon as possible. He stands. “All right. We’ll go.”

Varric takes him up the stairs and into the great hall. The stairs are difficult, Hawke following Varric at a stagger. He’s still  _tired,_  so bloody tired.

In the rotunda the mage is reading at a table. He looks up with a slight start. “Oh! You’re back.”

“So it seems,” Hawke says, and curses himself for the cagey answer. Still not used to talking to people again.

But the mage only smiles. “I’m glad to see you survived the nightmare demon and found a way out. A remarkable feat.”

“Yeah, well, Cole seems to think there’s something… _wrong_. With the Veil. That’s your area, right?” Varric jerks his head. “Can you do anything about it?”

Solas stands and approaches, frowning a little. “Well, it’s certainly not  _normal.”_ He pauses, tapping his chin. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you? It might help me discern the problem.”

Sounds like he just wants the sordid details, but Hawke isn’t in a position to refuse. So he tells his story. Solas is a silent audience, circling Hawke slowly, his face drawn in thought. When Hawke is finished he draws to a stop, folding his hands behind his back. “A fascinating tale.”

Varric, leaning against the wall, looks decidedly less excited about the whole thing. Hawke eyes Solas. “So d’you know what the problem is?”

“Oh, yes. You were in the Fade a long time—relatively. It…tainted you, I suppose you could say. The Veil is distorted around you, bolstering your connection to the Fade even after your escape. Have your dreams been disturbed since your return?”

Hawke raises an eyebrow.  _“That’s_  what it is? Not just—” Not just his own weakness. That is some comfort. He shakes his head. “Er—yes, they have. I’ve been…seeing that spirit. That looked like Fenris.”

“Mm.” Solas nods. “Doubt, I suspect. Notoriously persistent.”

“A—a spirit of  _doubt?”_

“Do you have another theory?”

Hawke isn’t much for spirits. He doesn’t have an answer.

“What has it been doing, in your dreams?” Solas asks.

“Trying to kill me, mostly,” Hawke mutters.

“Hurting you, then. Do you feel it, when you awaken?”

Throwing up after it tore out his guts. Gasping for breath when it ripped open his chest. Going cold all over when it sliced open his neck and watched the blood spill— “I—sort of, I suppose.”

“Mm. What you feel when you wake up is a result of the Veil’s distortion. The Fade bleeds over. What you believe becomes true, to an extent.” He smiles. “You should be glad you are not a mage. Else those dreams might have killed you.”

Hawke grimaces. Fantastic. “Can you fix it?”

“I already have.”

Hawke stares dumbly. He already has? Must have been while he was listening, which probably means he didn’t actually need to hear any of it. Hawke exhales. Needs to stay on his  _bloody_  toes.

“If you experience any more ill effects, please come speak with me again.” Solas inclines his head. “Thank you for sharing your story. It was…illuminating.”

Varric pushes himself off the wall. “Hey, Chuckles. Fixing the Veil is impressive and all, but are you any good with broken bones?”

“Oh! You are injured. I confess I am no expert in healing, but I do have some small skill.”

Hawke, fearing Varric’s wrath should he refuse, shifts aside his reluctance and allows himself to be healed. The mage is no Anders, that’s for sure—the whole process takes at least twenty minutes—but Hawke, to his distant astonishment, finds his pain leaching away. It’s been with him so long he’d forgotten what it was like not to hurt. His broken arm is indeed swollen, twice the size of his other one and an angry black-purple to boot. But with Solas’s care it shrinks back down again, although the bruises linger.

At last Solas steps back. “I’m afraid I’ve done all I can. You will need to be careful. You may be…fragile for some time.”

Hawke stares down at himself. He still hurts—old bruises, deep aches—but the bone pain is almost gone. “It’s…thank you.”

_It’s incredible._

Varric leads him out of the rotunda, and they pause in the great hall. Varric hesitates, then turns to Hawke. “So. I’m guessing you want to know about the druffalo in the room.”

Hawke snorts. “I’d hardly call him a druffalo. He’s not very big.”

“Yeah. Well…” Varric rubs his forehead. “He’s here. At Skyhold.”

Hawke stares. “He’s— _what?_  Why didn’t you tell me before?!”

Varric flings his hands up. “Because you would have run up to see him with your—your ribs all broken, and still starving, and when he tried to throw you out the damn window you might not have been able to stop him.”

“Varric,  _what happened?”_

Varric heaves a sigh and gestures to one of the fireplaces that line the hall. “Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.”

So Hawke lowers himself into one of the wooden chairs. The flames crackle sedately behind the black iron grate, and warmth seeps into his exhausted muscles. Varric sits opposite, resting his head in his hand. “It took me a while to figure out what to write.”

He’s solemn. Hawke’s rarely seen him solemn. Damn it all. He didn’t think about it, not really. Not what his death would mean for everyone else. “But I wrote the letter, because I had to,” Varric says. “And I sent it with the smartest courier I knew. A week ago, she shows up again with Fenris behind her. He’s furious. Shouting at me, demanding all the details. Why you got left behind in the Fade, why we couldn’t go back and get you. I told him you—you wanted to stay. To save everyone.”

“Shit,” Hawke mutters.

“I don’t know. I thought it might make it better if he knew it was something you wanted. It didn’t.” Varric leans back, gazing into the fire. “I put him up in a room of his own. No one’s seen him outside it except whoever happens to be passing by when he’s making his trips to and from the wine cellar.” A humorless grin. “The steward got on my case about all those wasted bottles. Said she had people try and stop him but he just walked straight through ‘em. I told her to let him take what he wanted, put the cheap stuff up front and I’d pick up the tab.” He shrugs. “It’s not even that much wine. You know him, he’s kind of a lightweight.”

It’s true. Fenris rarely got drunk in Kirkwall, and when he did it didn’t take much. “And he’s been just…”

“Locked in his room,” Varric replies. “For a week. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he either yells at me to go away or throws a bottle against the door. I have managed to get food snuck into his room a couple times when he’s gone out for more wine. And the broken glass swept up. I’m kind of at a loss, to be honest. He’s, well, volatile. And I’ve been…distracted.”

“Please take me to him.”

Varric looks up.

Hawke grips the arms of his chair. “Varric. Please. I need to see him.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t be surprised if he’s too drunk to recognize you.” He rises.

They go together through the stone halls. Pins and needles flush over Hawke’s skin, from his fingers down to his toes. Will Fenris be—no, he won’t be sick. Drunk, maybe. But not poisoned, not with red lyrium. He can’t be.

Varric stops at a wooden door shunted away in a corner and knocks. “Fenris?”

No answer.

“Fenris, I have some, uh—some news.”

A groan and a muffled “Go away.”

It’s him. Hawke puts a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Varric goes on, unperturbed. “It’s Hawke. Turns out he’s not dead. He got out of the Fade. He’s here, actually.”

“Fenris?” Hawke calls, his voice shaking a little. “It’s me.”

Silence. Then rustling, jostling of the handle, and the door swings open, just a few inches.

Fenris peers up at him through the gap.

His hair is unkempt and—sort of long, certainly longer than it was when Hawke last saw him. He’s squinting, and his eyes are puffy. Must have been asleep. “Fenris?” Hawke whispers.

Fenris stares for a moment. Then he shakes his head vehemently. “No. You’re dead. He’s dead.”

“I’m not. I’m sorry, it—it took me a while to get out—“

“No, he’s—he’s dead.” Fenris stumbles backwards.

Hawke follows, pushing the door open. A dozen empty wine bottles are scattered the floor, glinting in the afternoon light. Red-purple stains dot the carpet. “It’s me, I swear. Please, Fenris—”

“No! He’s gone! You’re not him, I’m drunk, leave me alone!” Fenris’s heel catches on the carpet, and he nearly falls, grabbing at the bedpost for support.

Hawke approaches. Wants to touch him, to hold him, badly,  _so_  badly. But Fenris is gazing at him angry and desperate and terrified and Hawke can’t touch him yet, not like this. “Fenris, please, just—I love you. I’m sorry I left. Please believe me.”

Fenris grips the bedpost, hunched over it, his knuckles whitening against the wood. Then he reaches out, carefully, as if afraid of being pricked or burned, and rests his hand against Hawke’s chest. Hawke wants to cover it with his own but waits, still—not yet, not until he isn’t afraid anymore—

Fenris’s voice trembles. “Hawke?”

Hawke only nods.

Fenris takes a stuttered step forward, his fingers curling absently, stroking Hawke’s chest. He swallows and takes a breath.

Then he lets out something that sounds suspiciously like a sob and embraces Hawke, fists balling in his shirt.

Finally. Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’s back and holds him tight, and kisses his tangled, unwashed hair. From the doorway, Varric’s wry voice. “I’ll send down some new clothes for you two. And something for the hangover.”

The door clicks shut. Fenris’s back shudders. Hawke tries to pry him off a little, if only to get a look at him. It doesn’t work. “Fenris? Are you all right?”

The indignant reply muffled by Hawke’s chest. “Do you  _think_  I’m all right?!”

“It’s just…you’re crying. I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“I thought you were dead!”

“Oh. Well—yes.”

“You—“ He steps back at last, and scrubs at his eyes hastily before facing Hawke. Oh dear. He’s very angry. “You  _insisted_  on staying in the Fade! You  _wanted_  to do it!”

Hawke winces. “It was just—I felt like I had to. That I could do  _something,_  something real, something I  _knew_  was good.”

“Hawke.” Fenris reaches up and strokes his face. “Please. You don’t have to die to help people.”

Hawke takes Fenris’s hand and kisses it. “I’d rather not. Die, I mean. I’m sorry. Sorry I stayed behind.”

Then Fenris hugs him again, and Hawke hugs him back. Fenris’s thin chest expands against Hawke’s body with his breathing, shuddering a little now and then when he threatens to start crying again. Hawke holds him tightly—a little too much so, perhaps, but he finds himself aware now, more than at any time before, just how close he came to losing Fenris, to dying a violent, ignoble death alone in an alien land. He discovers his nose burning and his eyes pricking a little, and he smiles at himself and kisses Fenris’s hair again.

Fenris makes a noise of distaste and pulls away. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Why?” Hawke grins. “Because you haven’t washed your hair in a week?”

“Something like that,” Fenris mutters.

“Well, you were just hugging me, and I dunked myself in a river three or four days ago but haven’t bathed since,” Hawke replies airily. “So I think we’re about even.”

Fenris jerks his head. “Come.”

Hawke steps into the washroom, a small space with a wooden tub sitting squat beneath a wide bronze pipe that sticks out of the wall. Fenris goes to the pipe and twists the cover off, and steaming hot water pours out of it—water from the same hot springs that supply the general baths below Skyhold. Private baths are something of a luxury in Skyhold, but Fenris has always been very reluctant to expose himself in front of others, something Varric likely took into account when finding him a room.

“Oh, Maker.” Hawke strips his shirt off and unlaces his trousers. “It’s been so long.”

There’s no reply. Hawke looks over. Fenris is staring at him, faintly aghast. “What?” Hawke asks. “What is it?”

“You’re hurt,” Fenris murmurs.

Hawke glances down. Right. The bruises. He is a bit covered. “Oh. Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt much.”

Fenris comes over, holds his waist, and kisses his chest.

The bath is full before long. It isn’t built for two—or even one of Hawke’s size, really—and a good deal of water sloshes over the side when Fenris sinks in after him. But they make it work, Fenris slipping between Hawke’s legs and leaning up against him. The water is so hot it nearly burns. It’s perfect. Hawke reaches over and plucks the bar of soap from the floor.

They wash each other. Fenris is careful of Hawke’s injuries, the bruises that have begun to fade to brown and yellow. Hawke is almost reverent as his hands glide over Fenris’s skin and run through his fine hair. To think he had almost begun to take this for granted—the intimacy, the closeness of the man he loves, who loves him back. Impossible to imagine this could have once seemed to him a routine act. He cherishes it now, running his palm down Fenris’s smooth, hard back, holding his hip with the other hand to steady him.

They sink down again, the faint scent of lilacs on the air from the soap. Fenris settles against Hawke’s chest and kisses his neck. “I…apologize for shouting at you when you first came in. I had only just begun to accept that you were gone, and I thought…I thought I was trying to fool myself into thinking you weren’t.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Hawke finds Fenris’s hand and takes it.

“And for being drunk. A poor way to present myself on your return.”

“You’re not  _that_  drunk.”

He snorts. “Not now, I suppose. You woke me from sleep.”

Hawke lifts Fenris’s hand and kisses his fingers. “I missed you. A lot.”

Fenris wriggles a little closer, and some more water sloshes over the lip of the tub. “Do you want to tell me about it? The Fade?”

Hawke groans. “Not really, no. Maybe later.” Or maybe not.

“If you decide to do so, I will be here to listen,” Fenris says, and rests his head on Hawke’s shoulder.

Hawke runs his fingers through Fenris’s wet hair and is rewarded by a little noise of contentment, a nuzzle and a kiss at his neck. For some reason it’s that that makes his heart break nearly in half, and he swallows down something that might have been a sob if he’d let it get there.

Fenris lifts his head. “Hawke? Is something wrong?”

“No, actually. Nothing’s wrong at all.” He grins. “That’s the amazing part.”

“I wouldn’t say  _nothing_  is wrong. The room is still covered in empty bottles, and there’s wine all over the linens and carpet.”

“Having a hard time getting worked up about that, to be honest.” Hawke runs his fingers through Fenris’s hair again. Any further protests die quickly as Fenris settles down once more. The press of his weight against Hawke’s chest is an unbearable comfort. The water is still quite warm, and the scent of lilacs floats on the air. Hawke sinks down a little to get more comfortable and shuts his eyes, just for a moment.

“Hawke.”

He squints. “Mm?”

“Ah.” Fenris watches him with an amused smile. “Back with us, I see.”

“Hm? What happened?” He lifts a hand and scrubs at his face.

“You fell asleep.”

Well, that’s somewhat embarrassing. “Oh. Sorry,” he mumbles.

Fenris kisses him softly. “You should rest.”

Much as Hawke would like to argue that, he’s still utterly exhausted. They climb out of the bath. Only one towel between them, but Hawke finds a housecoat in the cabinet so Fenris wears that while Hawke takes the towel. There’s a set of fresh linens on the top shelf, and he strips the bed and makes it again as Fenris gathers up the bottles.

Then there’s a knock at the door. Hawke tucks the towel a little more firmly around his waist and goes to answer, but Fenris, having some notion of propriety, snags the back of the towel and pulls Hawke away. Then he goes to answer the door himself while Hawke, the towel having come completely undone, ducks behind the washroom curtain to hide. When the door clicks shut he re-emerges to find Fenris holding a pile of clothes, with a tea tray resting on the desk.

“Tea. That’s nice,” Hawke says, catching the clothing Fenris throws at him.

“Good for hangovers, apparently,” Fenris mutters.

There’s food, too. Hawke leaves that for Fenris, only drinking some tea. The clothes are big enough to fit him, which is something of a miracle. Fenris’s are slightly too big and made for human, not elven proportions. When he raises his teacup the shirt slips off his shoulder, exposing one narrow collarbone. Hawke is faintly stricken at the sight and must sit down. Fenris levels a sly smile at him over his tea.

They aren’t clothed for very long, as Hawke undresses to crawl into bed— _bed,_  what an amazing concept. It’s soft and warm and he can stay there for as long as he wants (within reason, anyway). And Fenris is crawling in on top of him, pulling the covers over them both. He arranges himself the same way he’s done a thousand times before, the dips and angles of his body fitting perfectly into Hawke’s. His head rests on Hawke’s shoulder, white hair splaying over scar-crossed skin.

Hawke approaches sleep with a little bit of trepidation—but he’s cured now, or so that dodgy mage said. And he’s bloody  _tired_. So he hugs Fenris to him and closes his eyes.

——

He wakes to a loud clinking and rolls over. Fenris cringes, picking up the bottles that had slipped from his grasp. “I apologize. I had not meant to wake you.”

“What’re you doing?” Hawke mumbles.

“Cleaning.”

“Oh. I’ll help.” He begins to drag himself upright.

Only to be pushed firmly back down. “No. You will rest.”

Hawke squints. “Fenris, it’s all right. I don’t mind.”

But Fenris is already pulling the covers back over him. “I am in fact capable of doing this by myself. Please, Hawke.”

Hawke finds Fenris’s hand where it rests on his chest and squeezes it a little. “Fine.”

Fenris smiles and strokes his face. “Sleep well.”

Hawke curls up again, tucking the blankets up under his chin.

——

When he wakes the second time someone is kissing him.

“I’m sorry.” Fenris is sitting on the floor beside the bed. “I—missed you while you were gone.” He heaves a small sigh and turns away. “I should not have woken you.”

“Waking me up to kiss me is perfectly acceptable.” Hawke inches closer, drapes an arm over Fenris’s chest. “In fact, I encourage it.”

So Fenris turns around and kisses him again, and again. Hawke is exhausted and his eyes are gritty and there’s a bothersome hard lump of blanket under his hip but he still thinks this might be the best moment of his life so far.

——

Hawke inhales and scrubs at his eyes.

Another dream. But not so vivid as the others, and he isn’t breathless or sick. Still, he hates that sight,  _hates_  the lines of vicious red wrapped around Fenris’s throat like fingers choking him—

Hawke grimaces and forces the image from his mind. It’s dark now, no light streaming through the window. A single candle flickers on the desk. He looks for Fenris and finds him absent.

It’s fine, of course. He’s just gone out for some reason, and he’ll be back soon enough. But Hawke is still unsettled, afraid of something that hasn’t even happened. Pathetic, really. He huddles under the blanket, waiting.

Not for long. In a few minutes the door creaks open and Fenris slips inside. Hawke sits up, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. “Fenris—you—can you—“

Fenris shuts the door and comes closer. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Hawke reaches for his hand, clutches at his shirt.  _I cannot be without you again,_  he thinks, although  _how,_  exactly, is he supposed to say that, not when he—

Fenris sits on his lap and embraces him.

Hawke buries his face in Fenris’s neck—uncovered now, his hair tied up in a messy bun. “Sorry—I’m sorry, I just—“

“It’s all right, Hawke,” Fenris murmurs. “I’m here.”

Hawke takes a long, slow breath and clasps his hands at Fenris’s lower back. He still smells of lilacs from the soap they used earlier, and he wraps his legs around Hawke’s waist, holding him tight. The skin at his neck is warm and soft—

_—pressing his hand to the gaping slit. Bright red blood pumps eagerly out between his fingers. It’s a good cut, clean and wide—_

Hawke shivers convulsively and leans away, muttering an oath. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be doing this.

Fenris is quiet for a second. Then he nods at the bed. “Will you lie down?”

Hawke obeys. Fenris settles on top of him, his body relaxed and supple against Hawke’s. “You’re safe now. You’ve escaped.”

 _It doesn’t change what I did._ Hawke stares at the ceiling, candlelight flickering over the stone. “I need you,” he whispers. “I need you.”

“I am yours, Hawke.” Fenris leans up and kisses him, murmurs against his mouth, “And I always will be.”

Then he lies down again, his lips pressing gently to Hawke’s collarbone, the base of his throat. Hawke slips a hand under Fenris’s shirt and rubs his back in slow, wide circles. He’d missed this, the feeling of Fenris’s soft skin, the shifting of hard muscle beneath.

He closes his eyes.

——

When he wakes again it’s morning.

Hawke squints, rubbing his face. He feels…strange. He heaves a deep sigh and turns over. If it’s morning, then… “Oh, Maker. Did I sleep a whole day?”

“Yes. You looked like needed it.” Fenris sits cross-legged on the chair, buttering a hunk of bread. The room is devoid of empty bottles, and their old clothes and the wine-stained linens have been removed. On the desk sits a tray piled with food. “Are you hungry?”

Well-rested.  _That’s_  the strange feeling—he’s well-rested. And also starving. He rolls out of bed and stumbles to the desk.

News of his miraculous return will have undoubtedly made its way around Skyhold by now. After he’s finished inhaling his breakfast he shuffles into the washroom for a bit of grooming. It would probably be best for him to look at least halfway decent when he’s going around accepting congratulations from the entire fortress.

He splashes his face and combs his beard with his fingers, then leans on the table, water dripping from the tip of his nose into the bronze basin. They’ll ask what happened. They’ll ask how he got out. He can deflect—he’s very good at deflecting.

Will they be able to tell, even so?

Hawke gazes into the mirror. His onyx shadow glitters at his shoulder.

“Hawke?”

He jumps, his knuckles striking the basin and making a dull ringing sound. But it’s only Fenris, standing at the threshold. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to startle you. Varric’s at the door, he says you’ve got…admirers who wish to see you.”

Hawke rubs his eyes. “I…don’t think I should,” he mutters.

Fenris is silent, leaning in the doorway. Then he comes forward and rests his hands at Hawke’s hips. His palms are calloused and warm. “There’s…something you’re not telling me.”

Hawke strokes Fenris’s cheek, pulls him closer and kisses him. “I’m sorry.”

Fenris leans in a little. “I just want to help,” he says quietly.

Fuck. “I know, I just—I can’t. Maybe another time.” That’s a lie.

Fenris hesitates. “All right.”

Hawke puts together some cheer. “Now, I should probably get dressed before I go out there, or they’ll  _really_  have something to talk about.”

Fenris stays a moment, running his fingers over Hawke’s chest, through the dark hair there, making a slow, lingering trail down to his stomach. “I’m sorry, I just—I can hardly believe that you’re here.”

“Well, I’m not going off on my own again, that’s for sure.” He smiles, leaving the washroom and finding his clothes folded at the foot of the bed. “That might have been the  _worst_  bad idea I’ve ever had.”

“Mm. You certainly have plenty enough to choose from.”

Hawke, as he dresses, gasps in mock hurt. “You are so  _mean.”_

Fenris shrugs. “Yet somehow you put up with me anyway.”

“Because you’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met and I’d be a fool to leave you again.” Clothed now, Hawke embraces him, kissing his hair one more time before breaking away. “Right then. Got a throng of admirers out there I just can’t  _wait_  to meet.”

Fenris snorts and slips his hand into Hawke’s. They go through the door together.


End file.
